


Chaos

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s01e22 What Kind of Day Has It Been
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-02-03
Updated: 2002-02-03
Packaged: 2019-05-15 01:07:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14780747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: The life of one of the White House staffers is forever changed by the shooters.





	1. Chaos

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

Disclaimer: The characters on the West Wing belong to someone other than me;  
no copyright infringement is intended.  
This is yet another look at the events of the season finale...

Chaos. From the organised chaos of a town hall meeting with  
the President of the United States, to the disorganized chaos of  
a Presidential assassination attempt. The word echoed through  
the minds of many of the people involved in that chaos; they  
were, each in their own fashion, wordsmiths, and made their  
living by the word, spoken and written.  
Toby Ziegler, the White House Communications Director, was  
talking to the President as they walked toward the limo, in  
better spirits that he had been since the Mendoza confirmation.  
His carefully chosen words hadn't been too badly mangled by the  
President. Jed Bartlett was charming and witty, but sometimes  
his idea of wit was less than palatable to the American public.  
Toby's job was to make sure that the displays of virtuoso wit and  
erudition were kept within acceptable parameters.  
Toby was also flying high on the news that his brother was  
fine. David Ziegler had been stuck in orbit, waiting helplessly  
for the space shuttle to correct a malfunction that would allow  
the shuttle to land. Toby wasn't stupid; he knew the dangers of  
his brother's job. Those dangers made it easier for him to  
forget when David was going into space. If he didn't know, then  
he didn't have to think about the dangers David faced in his job.  
All in all, Toby was about as happy as he could possibly be  
when it was all shattered by the sound of gunfire from above.

CJ Cregg, White House Press Secretary was laughing with Sam  
Seaborn as she walked toward the car. She felt wonderful. The  
meeting was inspired; the President was a brilliant speaker,  
especially in this type of public appearance. She heard nothing  
tonight that would require her to face a hostile press corps.  
The meeting had gone flawlessly. She had been so pleased with  
the President's performance that she had given Danny Concannon a  
tip.  
President Bartlett was right; she did have to let Danny out  
of the doghouse. Danny had been right to publish Mandy's memo.  
It was news, after all, and he was a reporter. She had been  
furious with him, partly because he was a good enough reporter to  
ask the tough, unanswerable questions in his written analysis,  
and partly because she felt betrayed. She knew Danny had a crush  
on her. He had told her enough times. She had been furious that  
his personal feelings for her had not been strong enough for him  
to cut her a little slack on one of the more damning pieces of  
paper coming out of the Bartlett administration.  
Thinking about it now, especially after the rise in the  
administration's job approval rating, she had been unfair to  
Danny. He was a professional, just as she was, and it was one of  
the things she admired about him. That, and his quirky sense of  
humour and odd way of courting her. As she felt Sam's hand on he  
small of her back, guiding her through the doorway to the waiting  
car, she reminded herself to feed Gail before going home.  
She was almost to the car when she felt a hard push on her  
back, and the explosion of gunfire sounded in her ears.

Sam Seaborn, Deputy Communications Director, was simply  
relieved. The speech went well, which pleased him very much, but  
that one hadn't been his speech. Toby had written it, claiming  
that the President required more punctuation that Sam was apt to  
use. Having enough on his plate without writing a speech that  
the President was going to extemporize anyway, he didn't mind  
Toby taking it from him. He did mind Toby's constant demands for  
a precis of facts in case a question was asked on an obscure  
topic, but not much. It was his job, after all. The only  
drawback to Toby's constant demands for such information was the  
annoying niggle in the back of his brain until he found out  
himself. Well, that and the sinking feeling that Toby already  
knew far more about any given topic than Sam ever could.  
He looked ahead where Toby was picking on the President and  
the President was giving back as good as he got. The nice part  
about working here was that the smart ass comments that just  
slipped out without conscious thought were not only acceptable,  
but expected. Everyone he worked with, from his assistant Bonnie  
to the President himself, was well read, well educated and witty.  
The humour made the long, stressful days easier to bear.  
Toby had the most stressful day of all, Sam knew. The worry  
about his brother had broken through the curmudgeon facade all  
day, badly masked by working harder than usual. The sheer relief  
on Toby's face when the word came down lightened Sam's heart.  
Walking with the lovely, if a tad tall, CJ Cregg was no  
hardship. CJ had come down on him hard about Laurie, but she  
wasn't being judgemental about her, just about the appearance of  
impropriety. He felt she was a little more sympathetic about his  
liking for Laurie than his male colleagues. She was rightly  
concerned about how it looked, but she never said anything  
slighting about Laurie herself.  
The shout of "gun" had Sam reacting instantly. He dived and  
pushed CJ down at the same time. The gunshots seemed to go on  
forever.

Joshua Lyman, the Deputy Chief of Staff, was not in the  
group walking to the presidential motorcade. He had stayed  
behind to take care of a few small details and had walked around  
so he was behind the barricade. A town hall meeting was the  
perfect place to make a few inquiries to the staff of some of the  
other movers and shakers in Washington.  
He hadn't really been in the mood for playing the power game  
tonight, but he didn't want to run the gauntlet of his fan club  
again. He was pleased and slightly embarrassed by the small but  
vocal group of girls who reacted to his appearance as if he were  
a rock star or something. It was good for his ego, of course,  
but it was also bizarre. Leo McGarry, the Chief of Staff and his  
boss, thought it was a good thing to have politics become as sexy  
and cool as music or television, but Donna, his assistant,  
usually made some devastatingly funny and weird Donna-like remark  
about them. Somehow, Donna's off hand withering remarks made  
more of an impact that Leo's.  
It wasn't like he could ever acknowledge any of the girls,  
other than to smile and wave at them. For him to go anywhere  
near them was a PR disaster; they were all far too young.  
Besides, he reflected, he wasn't interested in young co-eds. He  
had no time to devote to a relationship. His earlier forays into  
romance had all ended badly. Mandy Hampton was the worst. Sharp  
as a razor blade, with a streak of wild brilliance that matched  
his own, she should have been a perfect partner. And she had  
been, until that razor had been directed at him and she had cut  
him to ribbons and left him bleeding on the floor. He had  
deserved it, he could now admit, but it still gave him a shock to  
see her in his workplace.  
Joey Lucas had been another possibility. She also possessed  
a keen intelligence and that annoying ability to see through him  
and find his vulnerable points. He had misstepped so often with  
Joey that he wasn't sure if she liked him or not. In a way, it  
was a good thing that she was deaf and had her translator, Kenny,  
there all the time. He never entirely forgot that Kenny was  
there, although Kenny did his best to seem invisible. With Kenny  
there, he had to rein in his impulsive desire to grab her and  
kiss her senseless.  
No, he had no time for a relationship, even with the  
beautiful and smart Joey Lucas. He needed his energy for his  
job. Maybe Sam had the right idea, making friends with a call  
girl.  
Josh mentally slapped himself upside the head for that  
thought. Sam had not hired Laurie in any way, and Laurie had  
shown herself to be a woman of integrity and honour. Besides,  
Sam didn't need to hire female companionship; anyone as good  
looking as Sam could find a date just by smiling. As long as he  
didn't open his mouth and say something dorky, Sam was a catch.  
Josh was used to all the girls looking at Sam first, then turning  
to him when they discovered that Sam was hopelessly geeky. Sam  
was a pretty good chick magnet; maybe they could go out for a few  
drinks later and pick up some willing women. God, he needed to  
get laid, if only to help focus his attention on his work and not  
on Joey.  
He heard the unmistakable sound of gunfire and ran until he  
hit the barricade. He stopped, mouth hanging open in horror as  
he watched his friends falling to the pavement in front of the  
presidential motorcade.

Danny Concannon was not entirely pleased to have CJ slap him  
across the side of his head to get his attention. She would  
never know just how close she had been to getting slapped back.  
He was tired of the cold shoulder from her. She was a pro; she  
knew as well as he did that he could not have suppressed the  
memo.  
He was also tired of her blowing hot and cold towards him.  
She was in a tough spot where he was concerned, but the mixed  
signals were driving him crazy. One day cold and nasty, the next  
day grabbing him and kissing him senseless.  
Not that he minded the kisses, but he could have done  
without the gratuitous nastiness. He had carefully planned his  
pursuit of her; she wasn't the kind of woman who would be  
impressed with romance, which wasn't his style anyway. Off beat  
humour and shameless flirtation had always worked for him before.  
And it was working with CJ. She would have accepted his advances  
long ago, were it not for the conflict of interest. He was  
willing to wait for one or the other of them to be out of the  
jobs they currently had, but he was not willing to put up with  
her treating him like dirt whenever their jobs conflicted.  
Still, she had given him a tip and the tip was good. Toby  
Ziegler's brother being stuck in the malfunctioning space shuttle  
was a good human interest story, with the potential of a decent  
spread about the safety of space exploration. Shuttle flights  
had become so commonplace that most people thought it was  
perfectly safe. It wasn't, and the hook of having the brother of  
a White House senior staff member on board during a malfunction  
made it a workable story.  
He was still on the phone with his editor when he heard the  
commotion outside. He hung up quickly and ran to the window. He  
saw the chaos and his heart sank. Those people down there were  
people he knew; people who knew him. And his reporter's  
instincts kicked in; if he hadn't been on the phone following up  
CJ's tip, he would have been right there, an eyewitness to the  
biggest news story of the year.

To Be Continued; see part 2...

\--  
Adrienne 


	2. Chaos 2

Disclaimers: See part 1

Toby felt a burst of heat in his abdomen, and a force  
propelling him around. Then he fell on his back, pain radiating  
from that spot of heat. The panic around him was incredible. In  
the chaos, he was getting trampled. He covered his head with one  
arm, trying to protect himself from the feet of the people around  
him, the other going automatically to his middle, to the source  
of the heat/pain. His fingers encountered a gush of hot liquid;  
blood. His own blood. He had been shot.  
The pain was increasing now, his torso burning. He tried to  
pull his legs up, to curl himself into a ball to drive away the  
pain, but he didn't know if he succeeded.  
It seemed an eternity before the explosion of gunfire  
stopped, before the rumble of feet beside his ears ceased, before  
the chaos subsided.  
The next thing he knew, there were hands gently touching his  
arms, pulling them away from his body.  
"Mr. Ziegler?" The voice was unfamiliar. "Mr. Ziegler, can  
you hear me?"  
"Yes." Toby tried to talk, but he couldn't hear himself  
speak. The owner of the voice was touching him again, gently.  
"Gunshot wound to the lower abdomen." Toby could hear the  
voice from far away. "It's bad. Priority one."  
Toby could feel himself being moved, but the pain was bad,  
so bad. As the pain increased to an unbearable level, the tight  
grip on consciousness slipped away.

CJ felt silly lying on the ground, getting her new dress  
filthy with the dust of the street, and with Sam Seaborn lying on  
top of her. She knew, somewhere in the back of her mind, that  
Sam had pushed her down and fell on her to save her from the  
barrage of bullets raining down, but all she felt was ridiculous.  
When it came, the silence was deafening. There were shouts  
and running feet and loud cries of pain and shock around her, but  
the lack of gunfire sounded like blessed silence.  
"Sam?" She ventured, when Sam didn't move. "Sam, please  
tell me I'm not lying on the street with a dead man on top of  
me."  
"You're not lying on the street with a dead man on top of  
you." Sam said obediently. "Would you like me to get off?"  
"If you would." CJ replied calmly. San slid off her and  
she tried to push herself up with her hands. She whimpered in  
pain; her elbow would not support her.  
"Are you hurt?" Sam asked, his voice close to her ear.  
"I banged my elbow." She replied. "Are you?"  
"I don't think so." Sam replied cautiously. He sat up,  
helping CJ to rise to a sitting position.  
She looked around, cradling her arm. It was sore, but  
didn't feel too bad, all things considered.  
The limo was gone, hopefully with the unharmed President in  
it, and there were cops, secret service agents and ambulances all  
over the place. Two of them went screaming off into the night.  
"Ms. Cregg? Mr. Seaborn?" Paul Dettermeier, one of the  
Secret Service agents bent over the two of them, accompanied by a  
paramedic. "Are you hurt?"  
"My elbow." CJ replied. She allowed Dettermeier to help  
her to her feet, noting that one of her shoes had lost the heel.  
Sam also got to his feet and stumbled. The paramedic caught his  
arm, steadying him.  
"I think I may have twisted my ankle." He said and was  
helped to the bumper of one of the cars.  
CJ cried out in pain as the paramedic gently examined her  
elbow.  
"It's dislocated." He said calmly. "This is going to hurt  
a lot, but it will help." She cried out again as the pain went  
intense, then started to fade.  
"Was there anyone else hurt?" She asked urgently, as soon  
as she got her breath back.  
"I don't have that information, Ms. Cregg." The paramedic  
told her, fashioning a sling for her arm. "You need to go to the  
hospital for xrays."  
"Okay." CJ nodded. The pain was fading fast, but her elbow  
still hurt. She watched Sam being put on a gurney and put into  
an ambulance. "Do I have to ride on a gurney?"  
"No." The paramedic shook his head. "Would you like to  
ride with Mr. Seaborn?"  
"Please." CJ allowed him to slip the sling over her head  
and started to walk toward the waiting ambulance. She wobbled on  
her broken shoe and, with an exclamation of annoyance, she kicked  
off both of them and went in stocking feet.  


Sam knew from the moment he put any weight on it that he had  
sprained or broken his ankle. He got on the gurney quite  
willingly. He had broken his ankle before and he knew that he  
had to be sensible about it if he wanted to walk again. Last  
time he had broken his ankle, he had not been sensible and it had  
taken eight months and two operations to get the bones to knit  
properly.  
As he was wheeled toward the ambulance, he noted that none  
of his coworkers were within sight. That was bad. If he and CJ  
were the last, they were also probably the least injured.  
Naturally, the President and Leo were the first priority,  
followed by Zoey and, since they were together, Charlie. But the  
rest of the crowd would have been taken care of based upon  
injuries.  
He heard an odd sound and turned to look, then wished he  
hadn't. It was the sound of a body bag being zipped up. He  
gulped in a huge lungful of air to force down the nausea. Who  
was in that bag? One of his friends? A Secret Service agent,  
gunned down in the line of duty? An innocent bystander, caught  
in the chaos?  
As the doors closed behind CJ and she sat down on the bench  
across from his gurney, he caught a glimpse of Josh, clinging to  
the fence, looking like hell.

Josh clung to the fence, unable to move. He saw the chaos  
and carnage below and he couldn't make sense of it. He saw the  
falling bodies, the mass hysteria and fear, the agents shooting  
at the windows of the building across the street. He wondered,  
in the back of his mind, why the building had not been secured.  
He wondered if he would ever lose that sick/scared feeling.  
It had taken years for that feeling to fade enough for him to put  
it out of his mind after his sister's death in that fire. He had  
watched helplessly then, too, as the stink of death and  
destruction filled the air. He was paralyzed by it, as he had  
been them, and consumed with the guilt that he had done nothing  
to stop it.  
He tried to let go of the fence, but his fingers would not  
move. He could only watch, his fingers digging painfully into  
the wire, as the ambulances pulled up, as the emergency vehicles  
stopped askew in the street, as the presidential limo pulled away  
at top speed.  
The President and Leo were in that limo, he knew. He had  
seen them being shoved nilly-willy into the car as it peeled  
away. And Zoey and Charlie were in the next one, Charlie having  
the presence of mind to simply open the door behind him, grab  
Zoey and pull her inside. Gina, Zoey's agent, was on the ground  
as the limo pulled away, but she was now sitting up, panting.  
The first ambulance to pull away went in a different  
direction from the limousines. Josh blew out a breath. That  
meant the limos had gone to the White House, not to the hospital.  
He saw Sam and CJ together, Sam limping and CJ holding her  
arm. They went in the fifth ambulance, toward the hospital. He  
didn't see Toby or Donna or anyone else from the office.  
"Mr. Lyman?" One of the Secret Service agents was behind  
him; he didn't remember the guy's name. "Are you hurt?"  
"No." He replied. The word stuck in his throat, so he tried  
again. "No, I'm okay." He found that he could now let go of the  
fence.  
"If you would come with me?" The agent said politely,  
offering a hand up.  
"Yeah." Josh finally tore his eyes from the scene. "Yeah,  
to the White House."

  
Danny made a quick decision. He saw no use in going down to  
street level; the reporters there were most likely being  
corralled by the Secret Service as witnesses. They had their  
story, witnesses to the shooting, but they wouldn't get anything  
else. They were caught in the security net. He wasn't.  
So which way? The hospital or the White House? He fished  
for his keys and made sure his cell was safely in his pocket.  
The hospital it was, so long as he could get there before the  
security clampdown was complete.  


Josiah Bartlett, President of the United States of America,  
made a beeline to the Oval Office. It was his place of power,  
the place where he was the leader of the most powerful nation on  
earth. Here, he was surrounded by the symbols of office; he was  
Mr. President. He needed the mantle of power around him right  
now. Jed Bartlett was just a little too angry, a whole lot too  
scared, to be the one to take care of this.  
"Leo, what the hell just happened?" He ground out, speaking  
for the first time since the shooting. He had waved away medical  
help and shook his head to the question of his own injuries, but  
he had said nothing.  
"I'm not sure." Leo replied. He had his cell phone  
practically glued to his ear on the ride back to the White House,  
but he still knew very little. "The building across the street  
had three gunmen on the fifth floor. They emptied their weapons  
on the crowd. We don't know exactly how many weapons they had  
yet. Ron reports that two of the gunmen are dead and one in  
custody. There might be others involved in the attack, but the  
actual shooters are accounted for."  
"How did they get there?" Bartlett asked with ominous calm.  
"Unknown at this time."  
"How many injuries?"  
"As far as we know right now, three people on the ground are  
dead, seventeen injured." Leo replied, then waved an apologetic  
hand as his cell rang. He listened for a moment, then snapped it  
shut.  
"What?" Bartlett looked concerned; Leo had gone pale. Leo  
carefully put the phone back in his pocket and took a deep  
breath.  
"They're transferring calls to a secured line here." He  
said quietly. "Zoey and Charlie were following us here. Gina  
Toscano shielded both of them from the shots. She was wearing  
kevlar. She's okay, although she has some pretty spectacular  
bruises."  
"And...?" Bartlett knew there was more.  
"Sam has a broken ankle and CJ dislocated her elbow." Leo  
continued. "Josh is okay. He's on his way here. No one else on  
the staff was hurt except..." Leo broke off.  
"Toby." Bartlett's voice was flat. "Is he...?"  
"Not yet." Leo's voice was also flat, unemotional. "Toby  
was hit and it's bad. Real bad."

To Be Continued; see part 3...

  


	3. Chaos 3

Disclaimers: See part 1

The surgery went on for hours. The damage from the bullet  
was serious. It ripped through the large intestine, just below  
the stomach and straight out the back, shattering the lower  
vertebrae. The surgeon was, in his heart of hearts, surprised  
that the patient made it through the hours of painstaking repair  
of the intestines, the picking out of bone fragments and the  
addition of steel rods and plastic to the portion of the spine  
that had been blown away.  
Even after the surgery was completed and the patient was  
still alive, the certainty of serious infection made it difficult  
to hold out any hope. The only certainty the surgeon was willing  
to give was that Toby Ziegler, if he survived, would never walk  
again.

CJ, her arm in a cast, looked at Sam, who had his foot in a  
cast, and sighed. She wanted to get out of here, but she needed  
to know what was going on. The Secret Service, backed by the  
Washington Police and the hospital security people, had cordoned  
off the area and she found herself sitting in a small office with  
Sam. Ron Butterfield, who had just arrived at the hospital,  
promised to find out what was going on.  
"Where is he?"  
"Where is who?" Sam favoured her with a sunny smile. She  
glared at him, wondering what he had to smile about.  
"Ron. Butterfield." She bit out. "Are you on drugs?"  
"Yes." Sam replied promptly. "Good ones, too. Nothing  
hurts. Have I ever mentioned to you that I react very well to  
painkillers? Even Aspirin. Two Aspirin and I'm flying. Of  
course, they didn't give me Aspirin. They gave me something  
else, with a big needle. Don't like needles, really, but I'm a  
big boy. I can take it. My ankle is broken in two places, with  
a piece of bone pressing on the nerve. That's why I started  
screaming in the ambulance. Sorry if I startled you, but it  
hurt. Really. It hurt a lot. That's why they gave me the  
needle..."  
CJ tuned out the happy babble. Sam was really out of it.  
At least he didn't have to deal with the shock and uncertainty.  
He would be feeling no pain for at least another couple of hours.  
"CJ?" The door opened and Danny slipped into the room.  
"Danny? How the hell did you get in here?"  
"I got here before the police did." Danny said quietly.  
"My press pass has the White House written on it and the hospital  
security people didn't know the difference. How are you two?"  
"Oh, just dandy, Danny." CJ snapped. "My elbow's  
dislocated and Sam has a broken ankle."  
"And I'm stoned on painkillers." Sam added proudly.  
"And I don't know anything else." CJ finished, her voice  
rising in panic. She wanted to throw herself in Danny's arms, to  
take comfort in his presence. She also wanted to throw Danny  
out; reporters should not be here.  
"I've done some checking." Danny pulled out his notebook.  
"The President and Leo are at the White House. They weren't  
hurt. Zoey and Charlie, ditto. Gina Toscano has a lot of  
bruises from the shooting, but she was wearing a vest. Two of  
the shooters are dead, one in custody. Donna Moss is being  
treated for a slight head wound. I don't know yet how she got  
it. Two people in the crowd were pronounced dead on arrival and  
another one died a few minutes ago. I don't have identification  
on them yet. Two Secret service agents were grazed and eleven  
other people are being treated here for bumps and bruises, mostly  
from the panic. The only other serious injury is Toby."  
"Toby?" Sam's sunny, drug induced happiness was abruptly  
gone.  
"Toby's in surgery." Danny said bluntly. "He was hit in  
the abdomen and it looks like he may not make it."  
"Toby?" CJ put her hand to her mouth, choking back a sob.  
"CJ, it's bad." Danny said gently, putting his notebook back  
in his pocket. He reached for her as she reached for him, her  
head going to his shoulder and the sobs tearing themselves from  
her throat.

Sam blinked several times to clear the tears out of his  
vision. His gaze was directed on the blindingly white plaster of  
his cast. Toby was still in surgery. It was hours now and he  
was still in surgery. CJ had left with Danny and a nurse had  
finally realised that he was in no shape to go anywhere. He had  
been put in a room and a nurse was in every now and then to make  
sure he was all right.  
He had slept in fits and starts, abruptly passing out, then  
waking without realising that any time had passed. The nurse had  
updated him on Toby's condition each time she came in and the  
update was always the same. Mr. Ziegler is still in surgery.  
"Mr. Seaborn?" It was the nurse again. The room was now  
bright with sunshine; he must have fallen asleep again. This  
time, he felt a little less groggy and there was pain in his  
ankle.  
"Is there any report on Mr. Ziegler's condition?" He asked  
immediately.  
"Mr. Ziegler is out of surgery and is holding his own." The  
nurse replied. She had been given orders by Mr. Ziegler's next  
of kin to fully update Mr. Seaborn of his condition. "The doctor  
will be in to see you in half an hour."  
The doctor gave him a prescription for some very mild  
painkillers and told him he could go home as soon as he got some  
crutches. The cast would stay on for eight weeks and he was to  
come back and get it removed. Sam promised to go straight home,  
lied to the doctor about whether there was anyone to take care of  
him, and was discharged.  
He was dressed and in the obligatory wheelchair, pulling out  
his cell to phone for a cab, when a familiar face called to him.  
"Mallory." Sam was surprised. "What are you doing here?"  
"I came to drive you home." Mallory smiled. "Dad thought  
you'd appreciate some help."  
"Leo sent you?"  
"Yep." Mallory went behind him and started to push the  
chair. "I am to get you home safe and sound."  
"No, Mal. Get me to the White House." Sam protested.  
"Home, Sam."  
"I'm going to go out of my mind if I go home, Mallory." Sam  
explained. "I promise to sit quietly on a sofa and be a good  
boy, but I can't be out of the loop."  
"Okay."  
"Okay? Just like that?"  
"I thought you might feel that way. So did Dad and the  
President." Mallory got to her car and opened the passenger  
door. "He's offered to put all of the senior staff up at the  
White House until things calm down. Everyone else is there,  
expect you and..." She broke off suddenly and Sam blinked hard  
to keep the tears back.  
"Yeah."  


Josh paced around the Oval Office, unable to keep still.  
The others watched him pace, except for CJ, who had her head bent  
over her laptop and the President, who was reading at his desk.  
He and Leo and Bartlett had been there all night, none of them  
able to sleep, none of them able to leave. Zoey and Charlie,  
never more than two feet away from each other, had crept down to  
the kitchen and made soup for everyone. Zoey's soup was good and  
they all made a pretence of eating it.  
CJ had arrived in the middle of the night, with Danny in  
tow. Danny, as soon as he had told the group what he knew and  
offered his condolences, left to write his story. Sam was  
staying overnight, but he'd be there as soon as Mallory picked  
him up. Toby had made it through surgery, but it was still touch  
and go.  
Josh kept looking at the white bandage on Donna's head,  
wondering how bad it was. She had been popping in and out of the  
room all night, notebook in hand, fetching things for CJ. When  
he tried to comfort her, she snapped at him, telling him that her  
head hurt enough without having to listen to his platitudes. He  
left her alone after Mrs. Landingham glanced at him meaningfully.

"Okay, I think I have it." CJ said to the room. Typing  
with one hand was awkward, but it did give her time to think.  
She wished she had Sam or Toby there to write this speech, but...  
She turned away from those thoughts. "Mr. President, I think I  
should start with a press conference, answering some of the  
questions, then have you go on national television for your  
speech."  
"Why not have the president speak, then you take questions?"  
Josh asked.  
"Because then I control the questions, not the press corps."  
CJ retorted. "Mr. President?"  
"Yes, that sounds fine, CJ." Bartlett answered. "What  
time?"  
"I'll start the conference at eight, which is half an hour  
from now, and you can speak at nine." CJ consulted her watch.  
"The networks will give us the time whenever we want it."  
"Nine it is, then." Bartlett capped his pen and stood up.  
"Let me see what you have."  
CJ shifted so the President could sit beside her and read  
off the screen. She had given a brief statement last night,  
almost as soon as she came into the White House, but everyone was  
waiting for the President to address the nation.  
"Okay, this will work." Bartlett nodded. He looked up as  
Sam came in, on crutches, followed by Mallory. "Good to see you,  
Sam. Any word?"  
"Last I heard, Toby is holding his own." Sam replied,  
making it to one of the chairs and sitting down gratefully. "Is  
that your address, Sir?"  
"Yes." Bartlett picked up the laptop from CJ's lap and  
brought it over to Sam. "Take a look and let me know that you  
think."  
"I think I need to watch out for my job." Sam said, reading  
rapidly. "It's brilliant, CJ."

To be continued; see part 4...


	4. Chaos 4

Disclaimer: See part 1...

"CJ, I heard that Toby Ziegler's condition is critical."  
Danny said, at CJ's nod. "Is there any word on that?"  
"Not yet." CJ replied. "He is on the critical list, but he  
pulled through surgery just fine."  
"Considering the bullet fragmented near the spinal cord,  
what are the chances of Toby ever walking again?"  
CJ caught her breath at the seeming cruelty of the question,  
even though Danny had warned her that he was going to ask.  
"Toby just got through major surgery and the effects of the  
shooting may not be known for weeks." CJ answered carefully.  
"Toby Ziegler was one of the most vocal supporters of gun  
control legislation." Danny continued, having coordinated this  
with CJ. "Under the circumstances and assuming he is back to  
work any time soon, will the President pull him off the issue?"  
"No, Danny, the President will not." CJ said firmly. "The  
President is more determined than ever to pass a workable,  
comprehensive package of gun control legislation in this country.  
Last night's events simply pushed the issue to the top of our  
agenda. As for Toby Ziegler's participation in this issue, I  
can't think of a more appropriate person to be involved."  
"Doesn't the White House think there may be a conflict of  
interest to have a victim of a shooting spearheading gun control  
legislation?" Steve Marshall asked.  
"The opponents of gun control legislation have to face the  
results of irresponsible use of firearms sometime. Gun control  
legislation is not a theoretical exercise in constitutional  
reform. It is a necessity to protect the lives of Americans  
everywhere. It's time for the gun lobby to face that fact and be  
confronted with the reality of indiscriminant access to  
firearms." CJ said firmly. "That will be all, people. The  
President will be speaking to the nation in about fifteen  
minutes."

Andrea Wyatt stroked Toby's hand, as the beeps and hisses  
from the machines filled the room with repetitive sounds. As his  
next of kin, she was allowed to see him twice a day, even if he  
didn't know she was here. She could only touch that one hand,  
his left, the one that still wore the gold wedding band she had  
given him long, long ago.  
A little over a year. The divorce had been final for over a  
year and Toby still wore his wedding ring.  
He had been so angry at her decision to run for office. He  
had not wanted to move to Washington. He had wanted to stay in  
New York, to stay in his safe, comfortable job, teaching at CCNY.  
He lived and breathed politics, but he preferred to do so from  
the safety of academe, only occasionally venturing out into  
consultation when pressed.  
She had persisted, wanting to be in Congress, wanting to  
help people. Toby had grudgingly given his support, even to the  
point of insisting she use her maiden name for the campaign.  
Ziegler was too Jewish, he insisted. Don't put religion into  
your campaign, he told her. She agreed. She had been proud to  
be Mrs. Ziegler, but she had not converted, much to the dismay of  
his family.  
It was the campaign that drove them apart. She was never  
home, always working on strategy and in meetings. Toby had been  
bored and restless, with nothing to do except listen to her  
complain about the rigours of a campaign. The flaming arguments,  
which they had always had, became more and more personal, more  
and more hurtful.  
The last straw to their marriage was the day he quit her  
campaign to join the Bartlett team. At the time, Andi accused  
him of wanting to outshine her efforts. Working for a junior  
congresswoman didn't look as good on his CV as working for the  
next President of the United States. He had stormed out and she  
had refused to back down. Three months after the election, Andi  
served him with divorce papers.  
It wasn't until much later that Andi admitted to herself  
that she had driven Toby away from her campaign. He had been  
supportive, in his gruff, abrasive way. She would have foundered  
a dozen times in the early days had it not been for his almost  
preternatural ability to cut to the heart of an issue. His  
defection to the Bartlett campaign was a blow, but it had worked  
out for the best. Both she and Bartlett won handily.  
After the dust settled, they had tried to reconcile, but  
they had both changed too much to be able to recapture the magic  
they had once had. She had grown in ways that Toby could not  
accept; he had become addicted to the exhilaration of working at  
the White House. Neither of them had the time to devote to  
rebuilding their relationship and, frankly, neither of them  
really wanted to. Andi looked at the gold band on her ex  
husband's finger and wondered if he wore it because it reminded  
him of the times when they were happy together. She wore the  
pendant he gave her on their wedding day for exactly that reason;  
a reminder that happiness was possible.  
She had to leave. She had a meeting on the Hill in an hour.  
She bent and kissed the hand she held gently, promising that she  
would be back as soon as she could.

The address to the nation was done. Bartlett leaned back in  
his chair and sighed. He had been up all night and he was tired.  
Abbey had crept into the Oval Office for a few minutes when he  
first came back from the Newseum, but she understood that he  
didn't want her there; he didn't want to break down. Instead,  
she had taken control of the arrangements for the senior staff to  
stay in the Residence, kept in contact with the hospital for  
updates that she understood better than anyone else, and dealt  
with Zoey and Charlie. Now, with everything that could be done  
now done, he needed her. He needed to stop being the President  
and start dealing with the fact that his friends and family and  
people who had come out on an evening to see him, had been  
brutally attacked.  
"Jed." As if by magic, Abbey was there, her hands  
automatically reaching for him. "You should get some rest."  
"Yeah, I know." He hauled himself to his feet. "Did  
everyone get settled?"  
"Yeah. I had to hit Josh with a tranquilizer to get him to  
stop pacing, but other than that, everybody is in bed." She  
smiled and nestled into his outstretched arms. "Danny dropped  
off the story he just filed and left for home a few minutes ago.  
I ran into him in the hallway."  
"Let me see it."  
"No way." Abbey shook her head. "You are going to bed and  
getting some sleep. You looked like hell on television."  
"Abbey..."  
"You did. Mind you, it makes the point of just how awful  
tonight was."  
"Five people died tonight, Abbey. Seventeen of them  
injured, one of them still in critical condition." Jed said, in  
a low voice. "What kind of country am I running that a couple of  
fanatics could cause such chaos?"  
"The kind that needs a guy like you at the helm." Abbey  
replied softly. "You need to rest, gumdrop."  
"Gumdrop? You only call me that when you're mad at me."  
"If you don't get your ass into the residence and into bed  
pronto, I'll call you gumdrop on Meet the Press." Abbey  
threatened.

The papers were filled with stories of the attack for the  
next many days. CJ had her hands full dealing with questions  
that did not, as yet, have answers. She expected hard hitting  
questions, and got them, but not from Danny.  
"Okay, what are you up to?" She hissed at him, dragging him  
into her office after the daily meeting. It made her elbow hurt  
and her temper rose.  
"What?" Danny frowned at her, confused.  
"Why are you not asking the hard questions?" She asked.  
"You get mad at me when I do."  
"Danny..."  
"CJ, I don't have to ask the questions. I know damn well  
that you don't know the answers. You aren't going to tell the  
press how the Secret Service screwed up by not securing the  
building across the street, even if you did know." Danny said  
rapidly. "I am trying to build a feature here, CJ. A feature  
that will make the Bartlett administration look good if you guys  
don't screw it up. And I want to keep you and your bosses in a  
good mood when I make the request."  
"What request?"  
"An exclusive interview with Toby Ziegler."  
"Danny, Toby is in intensive care." CJ said sharply. "The  
doctors aren't even sure if he's going to make it."  
"He will."  
"How can you be so sure?"  
"It's been five days since he got shot and he's still alive.  
Besides, Toby's bad tempered enough to want to live at least long  
enough to piss on the graves of the punks that shot him." Danny  
pointed out. "And I want to talk to Charlie Young, too."  
"Danny, being soft on questions isn't enough to get you that  
kind of access."  
"I know. However, I think Charlie might want to talk to me.  
I want to talk about the racism issue, CJ. Racism and guns.  
This whole thing happened because a black guy is dating a white  
girl. It's a stupid reason and I want my readers to know that.  
I want to talk to the guy who has to live with the thought that  
the colour of his skin is why there's a lot of people hurt. He's  
pissed about it, CJ, and I want to give him a voice." Danny  
replied. "And I want to talk to the person who damn near died  
for someone else's prejudice. Someone who knows what it's like  
to be almost accepted, but still not quite American enough for  
some."  
"Josh is Jewish, too." CJ said quietly, after a moment.  
"Josh isn't obviously Jewish. He looks as WASP as you and I  
do." Danny countered. "That shouldn't matter, but it does."

It took a moment to figure out where he was. The lights  
were too bright and he felt odd. He was tired, as if he had been  
playing basketball for far too long. He moved his head slowly,  
looking for the source of the odd beeping noises. Hospital. He  
was in a hospital, hooked up to a bunch of machines.  
Slowly, he recalled the shooting. The pain and the  
confusion, the feel of the hot gushes of blood from his own body.  
He tried to lift his head, but the movement brought on too much  
pain. He relaxed back and looked for the call button. He wanted  
some answers.  
"Mr. Ziegler?" The face that appeared a few minutes later  
was a doctor, not a nurse. "How are we feeling?"  
"Like I got shot and trampled by a panicked crowd." Toby  
said, his voice a weak croak. The doctor pressed a glass of  
water to his lips and he sipped gratefully at the straw.  
"That's a very accurate assessment." The doctor observed.  
"I'm Dr. King."  
"How long have I been here?"  
"Five days." The doctor replied, pulling up a rolling stool  
and sitting down. "You lost a great deal of blood and you've had  
a high fever since yesterday."  
"How bad is it?" Toby frowned. He recalled dimly hearing  
"it's bad".  
"You were hit by a single shot, through the lower abdomen.  
The bullet fragmented upon exit through the lower back." The  
doctor said quietly. "Your large intestine was damaged and two  
vertebrae were broken. We repaired the intestine and put pins  
and artificial vertebrae along the spinal column. The intestinal  
injury caused the fever, and you've had massive doses of  
antibiotics to control the infection."  
"And the spinal injury?" Toby didn't know where the well of  
steady calm was coming from.  
"I'm afraid that several of the bone fragments impacted the  
spinal cord, resulting in paralysis."  
"I see. Permanent?" The eerie calm was still there.  
"I'm afraid so. We'll have to take more tests to assess the  
full extent of the damage, but I'm sorry. Based on what we do  
know, you will never regain use of your lower body."  


Toby saw the doctor's relief at his lack of hysteria. He  
was surprised at his own reaction. Paralysis. He didn't ask any  
more questions; there was plenty of time for that. He just lay  
there, unable to quite feel anything. It was as if his emotions  
were as paralyzed as his legs.  
Never regain use of his lower body. Damage to the spinal  
cord below the waist. He flexed his hands a little, just to  
reassure himself that his arms were still functioning. They were  
slow to respond, but his fingers seemed to be obeying his brain's  
commands.  
He was not quite sure how he was supposed to feel about  
this. Angry? Hurt? Depressed? He felt none of those things.  
All he felt was a sense of frustration and curiosity. He had  
been hurt, but what about the others. There had been many, many  
shots. Was the President okay? And Leo and Josh and Sam and CJ?  
He pressed the call button again. He wanted the last week's  
newspapers and a phone and he wanted them now.

To be continued; see part 5...


	5. Chaos 5

Disclaimers: See part 1.

Sam reached awkwardly for the ringing phone. No matter how  
he arranged his desk, the damned cast made it difficult to reach  
the phone easily. If he put it within easy reach, his computer  
was in a bad position.  
"Sam Seaborn." He said into the phone, not really in the  
mood to talk to anyone.  
"Hi, Sam."  
"Toby." Sam sat up straight and yelped as his foot banged  
on the underside of his desk.  
"What did you break?" Toby demanded, in a resigned tone.  
"My ankle." Sam replied. "How are you feeling?"  
"A little out of it." Toby replied. "I read the reports  
from the Post. How accurate are they?"  
"Pretty accurate. They were there at the time."  
"So I'm not expected to live?"  
"Well..."  
"Too bad. You guys aren't getting rid of me that fast."  
Toby assured him. "Nice semi eulogy you gave me. It amused me  
for all of ten minutes."  
"Look, Toby, I was in a hurry..."  
"I said it was nice. It would have been nicer if you have  
used fewer descriptive adjectives. Verbs are good, Sam. Verbs  
are our friends. Verbs make things happen."  
"Did you call to criticize my use of the English language?"  
"Mostly, yeah. And I wanted to let you know that my doctors  
are giving a press conference in a few minutes. You might want  
to turn on your tv."  
"Toby, what's the prognosis?"  
"They'll explain it better than I can." Toby replied.  
"It's bad, isn't it?" Sam asked. "Oh, God, Toby, I'm  
really sorry..."  
"Can it, Sam. I don't want to hear it. Not now." Toby cut  
in swiftly. "Just let the others know that I'm doing okay."  
"Okay."

"Sam, we just got word. Toby's awake and lucid." Leo stuck  
his head around Sam's office door. Sam was still holding the  
phone receiver.  
"Yeah, I know." Sam said blankly. "I just spoke to Toby on  
the phone."  
"How did he sound?"  
"It was weird. He sounded... normal."  
"Did he fill you in on his injuries?"  
"No. He just said to watch the press conference by his  
doctors."  
"Then let's go."

The west wing was almost at a standstill while the press  
conference halfway across Washington was broadcast. Nobody's  
office was big enough to hold the staff who wanted to know, so  
Leo led everyone into the empty press room, which had a wide  
screen tv hookup behind the podium.  
The conference was fairly long and quite technical, with  
charts and the like, but the staff only really heard one thing.  
Toby Ziegler was paralyzed. Permanently, due to injuries to the  
spinal cord. The doctors praised Toby's strength in battling the  
infection and predicted that he would be out of intensive care  
within days, but all the staff heard was that one, hard fact.  
"Oh, my God." Bonnie suddenly burst out, and ran from the  
room. Ginger followed soon after.  
Leo blew out a breath and gathered himself.  
"Okay, people. Back to work. We have a country to run."  
"But, Leo..." Josh looked at him blankly. "Toby..."  
"Toby has recovering to do." Leo said sharply. "And when  
he comes back here, he won't be pleased to find he has to do your  
job, too."  
"Right." Josh nodded and filed out with the rest. Finally,  
there was only Sam and CJ in the press room. CJ sat carefully  
beside Sam.  
"Are you all right?" She asked softly.  
"Toby criticised my comments about him." Sam said slowly.  
"He called me a few minutes ago and criticized my writing."  
"What?"  
"He said that verbs are our friend." Sam continued. "The  
guy is in hospital, after having been shot, paralyzed, and all he  
can think about is verbs?"  
Sam shot to his feet, shaking with rage. CJ rose as well,  
backing away.  
"How the hell can he think of verbs when he's... he's...?"  
Sam sat down again abruptly, shaking. "I whine and bitch about a  
broken ankle... I can hobble around... And he can't walk."  
"Sam, go home." CJ ordered. It wasn't her job to tell him  
to go, but she knew he was on the verge of breaking down.

Toby had asked for no visitors that night. He didn't want  
to see anybody. He didn't want sympathy or support. He needed  
to be alone for a while, to deal with the news.  
He looked at the mass of cards on the bedside table, none of  
which he had the strength to open as yet. Flowers were not  
allowed, but the cards were brought to him along with the  
newspapers he had requested. The cards would bring him comfort  
later, but not until he had processed his feelings about his  
injuries.  
The west wing staff had all asked when they could visit.  
Andi had called and he had spoken to her briefly. David, still  
in quarantine from the shuttle flight, had called as well,  
promising to be there as soon as he was released. The rest of  
the family had called, too, but he put them off for now.  
He was grateful for the offers of support, but he really  
needed to be alone. Even the nurses tiptoed in quietly and left  
quickly.  
He would never walk again. He would be in a wheelchair for  
the rest of his life. That, in and of itself, was hard to deal  
with. Always worrying about accessability, now being disabled.  
He would, in all probability, never be able to control his bodily  
functions again. Catheters were now a way of life. He felt a  
stab of fear. He would be helpless to do things for himself that  
he had always taken for granted. He would never have sex again.  
Oh, he had listened to the doctor's assurances that there were  
ways for him to make love to a woman, to bring her pleasure, but  
he could not function sexually.  
Toby wondered why that bothered him more than the loss of  
mobility. Surely he wasn't some randy teenager, with sex on his  
mind at all times.  
It wasn't about sex, or the wheelchair, or the loss of  
personal dignity. It was about not being whole. It was about not  
being able to offer a whole man to a woman. He was lonely since  
he and Andi broke up and he had been almost ready to try again to  
find the kind of relationship that he wanted. Now, that wasn't  
possible.  
He felt tears starting to form, as the emotional dam  
crumbled and broke. From this point on, he was going to have to  
face being pitied. Of all the reactions anyone ever gave him,  
pity was the one he could not accept. No matter how sincere the  
sympathy, there would always be that taint of pity, the  
unconscious disdain that healthy, whole people felt toward the  
disabled. For the rest of his life, Toby Ziegler would be the  
guy in the wheelchair. Whatever else he was, whatever else he  
did, people would see the chair before they saw him.  
Toby cried that night, alone in the dim room. Cried as he  
never could have in front of anyone else. He cried for all the  
things he had lost, grieved for the death of his own wholeness,  
grieved for the loss of who he had been.  
By morning, the tears were shed and the well of calmness  
that had sustained him through the first moments of waking up,  
the well of calmness that had sustained him through lesser hurts  
all his life, was deep and full. He would face these changes  
unflinchingly and bravely. No one would look at him as a victim,  
to be pitied. No one.

END


End file.
